Holding Over Water
by also known as LuLu
Summary: Spot Conlon's first love, and the life in between. You know you want to read it.. so c'mon, click on the pretty blue link ;D *NEW CHAPTER (I swear!)* Boxer’s gone, but the secret he left behind still haunts the Lodging House.
1. A Glimpse of What's to Come

Notes/Ramble: This is an experiment, to see if posting something now will motivate me to write more later. I began this fanfic a long time ago (June 2001), and let it die for a while, but now I have this urge to finish it. However, my cold and a terrible but hopefully temporary case of writer's block is keeping me from doing that (and keeping me from writing more on my other story... x_x). This might get removed in a day, though, when I'm off my cold meds and realize I am INSANE for posting this~~~~ :D O.o;; Please, don't mind the girl who's high on Nyquil.   
  
Obligatory warning: And, if it matters, this is slash. Slash is good. Let us all do the dance of slash. ::dance of slash:: Again, don't mind the girl high on Nyquil.. Actually, this concerns all of Spot's life, and the slashy part is just that, a part of it, not the whole thing.  
  
Disclaimer: Spot Conlon and Newsies aren't mine, but Speck and all other non-movie characters are. Yay them?  
  
_Holding Over Water_  
By LuLu  
  
I was in love once, with someone beautiful. Yeah, I know it's soft of a newsie, especially a newsie like me, to talk about someone being beautiful and all that, but it's true. I was in love. Madly, deeply, insanely in love with the most beautiful person ever put on this earth.  
  
And then it all fell apart. But we'll get to that later. The basics have to come first.  
  
Jack Kelly and I met when we were both thirteen. I was a newsie in Manhattan back then. There wasn't any way I could have even set foot in Brooklyn when I was 13, I was that scrawny. Jack was just a smaller version of himself. But back then he was still Francis Sullivan, and not quite a Cowboy yet. We met on one of the corners on the cusp of spring and summer of 1895. I was selling with my partner at the time, an eight-year-old named Speck. Yeah, Spot and Speck. The other newsies got a kick out of it too. Speck was short and thin from living on the streets, like any newsie his age. He had freckles all about his body (we called them "specks", hence the name), big blue eyes, fiery red hair, and an ever-present smile on his face. The kid was born to carry the banner. Speck's demeanor could charm anyone into buying a pape. He had taken a brief break to try to bum an apple or two off a fruit vendor (like I said, he had the God-given charm), so I was alone, yelling out the headlines. Jack was running down the street. I didn't pay much attention to him - after all, there were usually people running 'round the streets all the time. I snapped to attention, though, when BAM! he ran straight into me and bowled both of us over. Papes flew everywhere.  
  
"What the hell ya doin'!?" I yelled as the morning editions fell around us. I was down on my rear as he rose to a crouch, glancing around cautiously.  
  
"Well, looks like I lost da bulls." He stood on his feet, dusted off his pants and looked at me. "Sorry 'bout that." I glared at him.  
  
"Damn bastard, I oughta soak ya," I muttered. I was still on the ground, and he noticed. He held out his hand to help me up, but I smacked it away. "I don't take no charity," I informed him, and pushed myself off the sidewalk. Frowning at the mess on the ground, I started gathering up the papes. He bent down to help. "I told ya, I don't take no charity!"  
  
"Just tryin' to help ya, jeez." He handed me a pape. I took it, trying to make my eyes like ice, hoping he'd take a hint. Suddenly, he laughed.  
  
"What's so funny?" I asked. At that moment I was wishing I hadn't left my cane at the lodging house that morning. It would have been good to hit him with. But then I realized that the laugh wasn't mean-spirited - it was warm and friendly.  
  
"I'se Francis Sullivan." He held out a hand to shake.  
  
"Yeah, I can see what's so funny 'bout that," I said, cocking a smile and meeting his hand with my own. He had a strong grip, but he wiped his hand off on his pants after we shook. I guess he wasn't used to spit-shaking yet. "So, what were da bulls chasin' ya for?"  
  
"Eh, the usual."  
  
I nodded. That was enough to know.  
  
"Youse a newsie?" he asked me.  
  
"What do I look like, a milkmaid? Yeah, I'se a newsie. What about youse?"  
  
"Ain't got a job for now."  
  
As you can see, Francis Sullivan was a criminal. I never asked, but from what I know, he probably got it from his old man.  
  
"Youse should be a newsie," I told him. "Carryin' da bannah is a fine life." I tossed him a pape. "Here, try it."  
  
He skimmed over the front page.  
  
"Dat's a pretty damn bad headline."  
  
"Don't ya know nothin'?" I hit his cheek with the back of my hand in a friendly way. He looked at me, obviously a bit surprised. "Headlines don't sell papes. _Newsies_ sell papes."  
  
"Well, whadda I do wit dis headline?"  
  
"Do a dance, Sullivan." I rolled my eyes. "Whaddaya think yer supposed ta do!? Just improve da truth a little. Or look inside fer better stories."  
  
Jack opened the pape and skimmed through the inside for a minutes. He folded it back up, held it in the air, and then yelled:  
  
"Extrie, extrie! Woman gives birth to cow!"  
  
It worked like a charm. A gullible-looking woman came up within seconds and gave him a penny.  
  
"Thank you, ma'am," he said, nodding his head and tipping his hat. She smiled at him and walked away, opening up the pape, looking for the story. After she left, he looked over at me for approval. I was leaning against the building on the corner, arms crossed and grinning.  
  
"Not bad, Sullivan, not bad. What page ya find dat on?"  
  
"Twelve."  
  
I took a paper from under my arm and opened it up. Woman's prize-winning cow gives birth to calf. He was definitely good at improving the truth, even then.  
  
"Like I said, Sullivan," I said, shutting the paper, "not bad."  
  
At that moment, I heard familiar yelling from down the street. Forgetting Jack (and throwing my papes on the ground), I ran in the direction of it. Sure enough, there was Speck with some tough-looking guy around sixteen.  
  
"I said ta gimme dose!"  
  
Speck was holding two apples protectively to his chest.  
  
"Dey're mine! Leave me alone!"  
  
The guy gripped Speck by the front of the shirt.  
  
"D'ya want trouble, kid? 'Cause if ya do, I'll give it to ya."  
  
He looked serious, and the last thing I wanted was Speck getting hurt. I took a small rock out of my pocket (it would have been more useful with my slightshot, which I hadn't come into possession of yet) and fired it at the guy. It hit him right in the side of the head. He yelled out and jumped back, throwing Speck to the ground as he looked at me.  
  
"Youse must be short on brains to be pickin' on a kid," I said.  
  
"Youse must be short on brains to be pickin' a fight with someone biggah than youse," the guy challenged me. He wasn't much bigger, but he definitely had more muscle than me.  
  
"Howsabout a lit'l two-on-one?"  
  
I turned my head. Standing directly behind me was Jack, meddling again. The guy looked him over, and then back at me, then studied both of us, realizing the fight wasn't in his favor. He spit on the ground in front of us.  
  
"Eh, youse two ain't worth it," he said, turning around and walking away.  
  
I smirked.  
  
"He had bum odds," I commented.  
  
"Damn straight," Jack said.  
  
I went over to Speck and held out a hand to help him up. He took it and rose to his feet.  
  
"Youse okay?" I asked him.  
  
"Yeah, Spot!" He was grinning. Very typical of Speck. "Here, I got youse one, too!" He handed me one of the apples.  
  
"Thanks, kid."   
  
I shined it on my shirt and took a bite, then offered it to Jack.  
  
"No thanks," he declined. "Spot."   
  
He had a goofy grin on his face.  
  
"Spot Conlon. Got a problem wit it?"   
  
"No, no problem."  
  
"Hey, Spot, whose yer friend?" Speck asked me.  
  
"Oh, this is Fr - "  
  
"Jack Kelly." He held out his hand. Speck did a spit-shake. "Ya know, I'se gotta learn dat betta," he said, wiping his hand on his pants again.  
  
Speck and I laughed, but I had looked at him suspiciously when I heard the different name. He just grinned at me as if he could read my mind.  
  
"Me mudder was confused when she gave birth ta me."  
  
"I can tell. So which is it?"  
  
"Fer now, Francis Sullivan. Circumstances ain't around where I'se gotta use Jack all da time yet."  
  
Meaning, he hadn't been arrested yet. I nodded. Speck had been eating his apple and was watching us with wide eyes.  
  
"Hey, Spot, is 'e a newsie?" he asked.  
  
"Nope, but he did sell one of our papes for us." I stopped for a minute at the word 'pape.' "SHIT!" I exclaimed. "Da papes!"  
  
I was about to sprint back to the corner, thinking someone had taken them and wasted a day 's worth of our work and, more importantly, pay, but Jack started laughing.  
  
"Youse ain't got a very good eye, do ya, Spot?"   
  
I hadn't even noticed that Jack had had the papers under his left arm the whole time.  
  
"Youse lookin' ta be soaked?" I asked him, frowning.  
  
"I'll take ya up on dat anudder day," Jack said, tossing me my stack of papes. I caught them expertly, of course. "I'se gotta be goin'. See ya 'round, Spot."  
  
"See ya," I said as he sauntered off into the crowds.   
  
My first day meeting Jack Kelly was no coincidence. It meant something (if you believe in it, the word would be fate). Even then, I was sure of it. I was hoping deep inside that his "See ya 'round" had implications to it. Even though he'd only left a minute ago, I had immediately wanted to see more of him. He let himself stay mysterious and contradictory, which initially drew me to him. But the noon sun was starting to pass over the city, and Speck and I still had a good chunk of our load to sell, so I had to abandon those thoughts for a while.  
  
"C'mon, Speck," I said, handing the smaller boy ten or so papes. "We'se got woik ta finish."  
  
"Extrie, extrie!" Speck yelled as he thrust a pape in the air. He stopped for a moment, unsure of a headline to use.  
  
"Woman gives birth to cow!" I chimed in.  
  
Speck just looked up at me with his freckled face and grinned.  
  
  
  



	2. Starting From the Beginning

**Notes/ramble: **_I can't believe I'm actually doing this. I really can't. I'm actually posting this? HA. I guess that means reviewers do mean the world to me _^^; _For the time being, it's just copy/paste from the original file (which means, YES, I am being evil and not posting more than one chapter a day _9.9;_). I'm working on tying up the loose ends. Please, folks, review! This story has special meaning to me.. and it gets better, I swear o.o Just sweat through all this stuff.. and pray I don't come to my senses when I'm off my cold meds _^^;_; And I hope people believed me when I said this whole thing wasn't slash.. _^^;_  
_  
**Disclaimer!: **_Newsies isn't mine, but, um, the boys you meet in this chapter are : ) Especially Boxer _^_^  
  
_Holding Over Water (after nine monts, I still don't know where the title came from...) -- Chapter 2_  
  
I guess I'm being rude, not even to tell about my past and how I even became a newsie in the first place. But being rude is typical of a newsie, isn't it? I _should_ have mentioned my past, at the very least. After all, everyone's got a story. Some are more interesting than others. Hopefully mine's interesting enough to tell.  
  
If you haven't done the math already, I was born in 1881. I'm not quite sure where it happened, though, because I was never told. I've always said I was from New York, because those are where my earliest (and only) memories are from. My mother was kind, but the two of us were poor as dirt. I don't know who my father was and from what I've been told, I really don't care to know. My mother told me that he married her, took advantage of her, and then left her only a few months after I was born. Like I said, I've got no connection to him, other than my surname. "Conlon" was his family, but I was named after my mother's deceased father. If I ever met my father or his family, you can be sure about what I'd do to them because of what he did to my mother.  
  
Like I said, my mother and I were poor. She worked in a factory sewing shirts, but the pay wasn't very good. She took me with her when I was young. It was dirty, dusty, poorly lit, no windows - everything you'd expect of a factory. There were constantly new workers coming around because of injuries and the occasional death. But my mother never got hurt. She was one of the lucky ones.  
  
Despite our situation, my mother wanted me to grow up right. We didn't attend a Church or anything, but she taught me about God with a Bible that had belonged to her parents. She was determined to instill some sort of moral sense into me, so I wouldn't become a thief like so many other children of the day. At night she'd use the Bible not only to teach me Scripture but also to try to teach me to read and write in place of a school. She started teaching me about God when I was three, and the reading and writing lessons when I was five. By the time I was seven I was reading Genesis and the papes to her, clear as day. She was proud of me. I wanted her to be. I'd promised her that I would make something out of my life so she could always be proud.  
  
Of course, that was after her luck ran out.  
  
I told her that on her deathbed. She had gotten injured at work, and the wound hadn't been treated properly. It became infected, and she was already sick with some sort of fever she had caught from another woman at work. We couldn't afford a doctor and we didn't associate much with people in our neighborhood, so there was no one we could ask for help. So I sat by her bedside and tried to make her as comfortable as possible. She died right in front of me in October 1890. I was just under nine years old. I couldn't even give her a proper grave, just some godforsaken hole in the ground a short distance from our house.   
  
Because she was dead, there wasn't any more money coming in, so I was forced to leave the little shack of a house we had called "home" with what little belongings were left to me. I didn't have enough money to pay for a stay in a lodging house, and I was too proud (or was it afraid?) to make myself at home in an orphanage. As a result, I lived on the streets for a few months. I had a few brief stints in a couple jobs - most of them were shoe shining for various guys. I didn't leave each job because of the money or anything like that. It wasn't much money, but it was good money and I needed every penny I could get. The thing was, I had an attitude at nine that came from a bitterness with life and God for taking my mother away. That attitude ended up offending so many customers that my employers would send me away. At first I thought it was for the best. What was the point of shoe shining if you'd outgrown your only pair of shoes anyways? But then I was going hungry and by then it was December, so I was freezing too. I had already gone as far as to burn my mother's Bible for warmth, but when the pages were gone, I was out of luck. Sometimes I'd sneak into places to sleep, or sleep right outside those places, hoping to at least stay a little warm. But most of the time my sleeping spot was in some snow bank, freezing every part of me off. I caught a cold that grew worse and worse. By January 1891 I was sick, hungry, poor, and probably going to die, in my humble nine-year-old opinion.   
  
One night I curled up in the snow, completely beat up from trying (and failing) to steal myself a little food. So now I was bruised, sick, hungry, and poor. What was the point? I asked myself. I crawled into that snow bank and prayed that I'd never wake up. Life certainly wasn't the sweetest dream for me, and I thought that by dying, maybe I'd go to something better. Like my mother did. It was worst of all to think that I hadn't been able to do something good like I'd promised her. I'd even gone so far as to try and steal something. If she had seen me then, she would have been heartbroken. Her son was starving and beaten in a snow bank. Not very much to be proud of, I'll tell you that. My eyelids were heavy, and so was my heart. I let them shut, hoping it would be for the last time.  
  
"D'ya t'ink 'e's dead?" asked a voice over me what seemed like a million years later. My eyes weren't open, so I couldn't see who it was. But I could hear them, loud and clear. I thought, in my delusion, that I had died, and they were angels that were going to take me to Heaven like my mother had told me they were doing for her.  
  
"'e sure looks it," said another.  
  
"T'ink we'se should do somet'in'?" asked the first. "Y'know, to check if 'e's alive or not."  
  
"Let's kick him."  
  
They did. I moaned. Damn, angels hurt.  
  
"Sounds like 'e's alive," said the second.  
  
"We'se should take 'im to Boxah, den."  
  
"What the hell would Boxah hafta do wit any of dis?"  
  
"Where the hell else we gonna take him?" asked the first.  
  
"I sees whatcha mean."  
  
One of them grabbed my shoulders, and the other took my feet. I could feel myself being lifted and moved, though I had no idea how far away it was. The only thought going through my mind was that I was going to be with my mother again in Heaven. Next thing I knew, I was being set down on something soft in a place I could tell to be bright, even with my closed eyes.  
  
"Who's dis?" asked someone else.   
  
It was a strong, authoritative voice. It of course belonged the person the angels had been talking about, Boxer, but at the time I was sure that the voice belonged to God. God with a New York accent.   
  
"We found 'im in the snow, Boxah. 'e was freezin'."  
  
"We think 'e's sick."  
  
But I was dead...didn't they know that? I felt a hand on my forehead. God's hand. Blessing me, I knew.  
  
"Someone get Doctah Salamone, quick," God said to them. "e's got da fevah."  
  
I opened my eyes as much as I could, but everything was blurry.  
  
"Isn't dis Heaven...?" I asked.  
  
I could hear God laugh.  
  
"Dis place is nicer dan da streets, but it ain't no Heaven," he said to me.  
  
Then everything went blank.  
  
  
  
  



	3. Boxer's Newsies

**Notes/Ramble:** _Here I go again...a chapter a day for...three more days, I think, and then I go back to a-writing. This ramble is for Heather, who tricked me into telling her my author name last night -- you're evil XD If you're reading this, Crutchy (joke you don't get because you have yet to see Newsies! ;D), review! Thank you to everyone who reviewed already, I really appreciate it.  
  
Holding Over Water -- Chapter 3_  
  
They told me that I was fully conscious three days later. I can remember little bits of waking up and falling back asleep here and there, but nothing else. I don't think I dreamed of anything, because I couldn't remember anything. It was just a long, dark, dreamless sleep. When I woke up, I saw a brown-haired, brown-eyed boy of about twelve sitting at my bedside, watching me.  
  
"Good mornin', kid," he said to me. I didn't recognize the face or the voice. "Stayin' for a while?" I blinked hard and opened my mouth, but nothing came out, mostly because I had no idea what I was going to say. "Hey, Boxah, everyone, 'e's awake," he announced.  
  
What seemed like a million people crowded around me, each one saying something different. I moaned a little and turned onto my side, pulling the blanket that had been laid on me tighter, trying to block out the volume of the noise. One of the boys pushed past the rest to stand closest to me. The boy that had been watching me gave up his seat and the other sat down. He (the boy who pushed by, not Watchboy) was about eighteen or nineteen, from what I could tell, with a tough build, shaggy blonde hair, blue eyes, and a rather smug look on his face.  
  
"So, youse finally awake," he said to me with assertion.   
  
I immediately recognized the voice. It was the same voice that I had heard three days before. God's voice. I looked up at him, squinting slightly, trying to make him look like the person I was thinking of.  
  
"God...?" I asked softly.  
  
He laughed loudly. The same laugh, too. The other boys around me chuckled as well.  
  
"No way 'e'd be here, kid. I'se Boxah." He pointed at the boy who had been sitting next to my bed. "Watchah's been keepin' a good eye on ya for the past few days. Ya had us all worried for a while."  
  
"What happened...?" I asked. My eyes were still adjusting to the light and my throat was still adjusting to making sounds. I'm sure I sounded horrible.  
  
"Well, two of me boys found ya in the snow three days ago. Dey brought ya here, and youse been asleep ever since."  
  
I let the words soak in before I spoke. I was remembering something. "You...you said I had da fevah?"  
  
Boxer smirked a little. "Yeah, you did. But we called the doctah, and pitched in a little money each to buy you the medicine ya needed. Doctah Salamone said dat youse'll be fine. Youse got a real spot of good luck, kid." He looked me over a little. "What's yer name?"  
  
I hesitated, and then lied, "I ain't got one."  
  
"C'mon, kid, everyone's got a name."  
  
"I ain't everyone."  
  
Boxer frowned. "Listen, kid, we took ya off the streets, and we can put ya back if we wants. The way I sees it, you owe us a debt, and da best way to start payin' dat back is to at least tell us yer name."  
  
"I told ya, I ain't got one." See how surly I was, even at nine?  
  
"Youse _really_ wanna play dat game?" he threatened, rolling up his sleeves.  
  
"C-Conlon!" I yelped. Even though I was surly, I still knew where to draw the line.  
  
"Conlon what?"  
  
"Conlon's me family name," I said. "I ain't got a first name."  
  
"Should we give 'ima nick?" asked one of the boys standing around.  
  
"Dat's a good idea, Lanny," Boxer said. He looked back at me. "Got any preference for what we call ya?"  
  
I shook my head.  
  
Da board is open ta suggestions," Boxer announced, folding his arms over his chest and looking out at the group.  
  
Everyone started talking at once. There were a lot of suggestions - The Kid, Buddy, Lucky, lots of stuff like that that wasn't very good, but then a short kid piped up near the front.  
  
"'ey, Boxah," he squeaked, "youse said 'e's got a spot of good luck, so why don't we call 'im Spot?"  
  
"Spot." Boxer tested the name out on his tongue. "Spot Conlon. Whatcha think, kid?"  
  
"I - I like it," I said, and I really did.  
  
"Den now youse is known as Spot Conlon."  
  
I nodded. "Am I stayin' here?" I asked weakly.  
  
"'Course you are! After all, I said youse owes us a debt."  
  
"I do?"  
  
"Fer da medicine. We'se gotta know dat it ain't gonna stop workin' any time soon."   
  
He winked. I smiled and nodded.  
  
From that day on, I was one of Boxer's Newsies. At the time, he was one of the most famous newsies in Manhattan, and I quickly learned that any kid he took under his wing was a lucky one. Still recovering from the fever, it took me about four more days until I was strong enough to get out of bed without having to go back in halfway though the day. As soon as I was back on my feet, though, Boxer, being the oldest at 18 and Lanny, right behind him at 17, taught me how to fight. I'd need it when I was on the streets, they told me. I took to it immediately.  
  
"'e's a natural!" Lanny laughed. He was sitting on a nearby crate, watching me as I threw a punch. I was standing on a series of crates so I could get a good shot at Boxer. The guy was about twice as tall as me, after all. Or at least he seemed to be at the time.  
  
"The markings of a newsie," Boxer said approvingly.   
  
"Hey, Boxah?" I asked as we began working on ducking and weaving. It was me versus Boxer in a fake sparring match. Even though I was on crates, I was doing the best I could...mostly not to fall.  
  
"Yeah, Spot?" he replied, concentrating on me the whole time.  
  
"Why do dey call ya dat?"  
  
"I'm gonna work in the fights someday."  
  
"Are ya really?" I asked. Impressive, even if I wasn't so young and easily astounded. But being amazed left me off guard, and he snuck in for a firm push with the palm of his hand. I fell off the crate and back onto one of the lodging house beds. It was nearly the end of February, but still too cold to go outside for anything other than work. "Cheap shot, Boxah!" I protested.  
  
"Dey do dat a lot on the streets," Lanny educated. "Youse gotta loin dat, Spot." I nodded, not taking my eyes off Boxer. "Either way, youse a good student," he complimented me.  
  
"Thanks, Lanny," I said, and then threw a punch at Boxer's head. He dodged and my fit hit his shoulder, right on the bone. I yelped in pain. "That hoits!"  
  
"Never hit the bone, Spot," Boxer told me as he padded back and forth on his feet, staying alert. "It hurts you more than it hurts them, unless you get it in just the right spot." He sent his fist towards me. "And that ain't very likely!" I moved my head to the side so he'd miss and tried to go for his stomach, hoping to find him off guard. But he recovered quickly and blocked me. "Nice try. Do that on any other guy, and 'e'd he down like that." He snapped his fingers.  
  
"I think dat's enough fer today, don't you, Boxah?" Lanny asked.  
  
"Yeah, should be," Boxer said, looking over at him. An opening! I took the opportunity and gave him a blow to the side. "AH!" His head turned right back to me, surprised.  
  
"I gotcha," I grinned.  
  
"Nice job," he said, laughing and rubbing his side. "Good lesson today. Pretty soon we'll take ya out to sell papes, okay?"   
  
I nodded and hopped off the crate as a group of newsies came inside.  
  
"Good news, boys!" Lanny announced  
  
"What is it?" asked Arrow, a lanky 15 year-old with a streak of arrogance under his belt.  
  
"Spot can officially beat the crap outta any one of ya now."  
  
There was some fake cheering and hooting, and a few earnest "Congrats!" mixed in with it. I grinned and folded my arms over my chest, trying to look important like Boxer always did.  
  
"Yer great, Spot," one said, patting me on the head. It was Michael.  
  
The two boys I had called angels, I named them Michael and Raphael, after two my mother had told me about in the Bible when I was younger. They never told me their real names, and my nicks actually stuck so well that everyone started calling them that. Even Boxer. For short, though, they were just Mike and Raff. Mike was 14, and Raff was 15. I looked up to them like older brothers.  
  
"Thanks, Mike, and if ya want, I can take youse on someday," I said proudly, standing as tall as I could.  
  
"Howsabout me an' Spot versus youse and Raff?" Boxer asked.  
  
"C'mon, Boxah, be a little fairer than dat!" Raff complained, his voice fixing itself into a joking tone. "Spot alone'll soak us!"  
  
Boxer smirked. "Yeah, I guess you're right...another day, then, right, Spot?"  
  
"You bet!" I agreed. I was excited. I could fight! And I was good at it, too! I was so thrilled that I could barely sleep that night, or any of the nights after. I was anxiously awaiting the day I could finally go and sell papes.  
  
  



	4. The First Day Out

**Notes/Ramble:**_ Nothing to say this time _^^;; _But please keep reviewing! They're really nice to come home to.  
_  
**Disclaimer: **_Spot and Newsies aren't mine, but Boxer, etc are._  
  
  
That morning finally came, during the spring thaw in early March. Boxer had told me to get ready the night before. I barely slept a wink, and I woke up early, even before Mr. Johansen, the lodging house manager at the time, came to wake the whole group. I bounced in my bunk, excitement running through my veins, as quietly as possible, because I knew that if I woke someone up at this hour, they'd be really sore on me. Finally, though, dawn came (yes, I woke up _that_ early), and it was time for the newsies to rise.  
  
"C'mon boys, c'mon boys," Mr. Johansen announced as he paraded into the bunkroom. "Time to sell the papes!"  
  
"Carryin' the bannah," Boxer said sleepily, waving his hand as he laid face down in his bed.  
  
"That's right, Boxer, so you gotta get up!" He smacked Boxer on the back of the head and continued making his rounds. "Raff, Patches, Mike, Bars, all of you, get up!" Mr. Johansen peeked his head under Raff's bed to the bed where I slept. "C'mon, Spot, it's your first - "  
  
"Morning, Mr. Johansen!" I exclaimed cheerily, springing out of my bed.  
  
Mr. Johansen practically jumped out of his skin.  
  
"Jesus, boy, tell me when you're gonna do that!" he scolded me.  
  
"Sorry 'bout that," I grinned.  
  
"Go get dressed, would ya? The rest of the boys are gonna beat you to the mirrors, and you want to look sharp on your first day."  
  
"Thanks!" I sprinted into the sink room, but the only other person there was Lanny. He was shaving. "Morning, Lanny!" I called.  
  
"Heya, Spot," Lanny said, his attentions on the mirror. "Ready for your first day on the job?"  
  
"Yeah!" I was completely ecstatic.  
  
"Boxah still takin' ya out?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Lanny grinned as he flicked the last globs of shaving cream off his face.  
  
"Youse'll be a great newsie someday, yanno that, Spot? Youse is loinin' from the best in everythin' a newsie needs to know - fightin' and sellin'."  
  
I took my face out of the sink I had been washing my face in and nodded vigorously.  
  
"Lanny, yer such a suck up," Arrow said as he came into the room with a towel over his shoulder. "Yer just sayin' all that so Boxah puts you in charge of the house when he leaves."  
  
"Shut yer damn mouth, Arrow," Lanny snapped. "I can say whatever I wants as long as it's true."  
  
"But isn't Mr. Johansen in charge of the lodging house?" I asked Arrow as he washed his face.  
  
"Yeah, but he just collects the lodgin' fees an' all that. Boxah's the one who keeps us all in line. We all respect 'im, after all, and he knows it."  
  
"Why are ya sayin' he's leaving?"   
  
"Every newsie moves on, Spot. Hand me that towel, wouldja?" I did. "Thanks," he said as he wiped the soapy water off his face. "Boxah was left in charge of us by the last leadah, Flashpots, when he left 'bout two years ago. An' Boxah's getting up to dat age, so it'll be safe to say that he'll probably be goin' on to bigger and better things in a little while."  
  
"I don't believe you," I said, shaking my head. Boxer, leave? Impossible! That was like the sky falling. Or God dying. It just wasn't the way things worked to me.  
  
Arrow shrugged. "Believe whatcha want, then, Spot."  
  
"Youse tellin' Spot lies about me, Arrow?" Boxer had entered the room without either of us noticing.  
  
"Just preparin' him for the truth," Arrow explained with a shrug.  
  
"Well I ain't leavin' any time soon, so don't worry about it." He patted me on the head. "Ready for our first day?" I looked up at him and nodded with bright, adoring eyes. "Just gimme a minute," he said as he buttoned up his shirt. "There we go."  
  
"The presses are rolling, boys!" Mr. Johansen called to everyone. The sink room was completely full of boys dressing and washing now. "Hurry yourselves up before the rest of Manhattan buys their papes and you're left with no pay! And if you've got no pay, you've got no bed!"  
  
"C'mon, Boxah," I said, pulling on his sleeve. "He said the presses are rollin'!" We'se gotta hurry!"  
  
Boxer laughed.   
  
"That's just somethin' he says to get us all out of his sight sooner." A dejected look swept across my face. "But don't worry, just fer you we'll head on out right this second," he added, and we headed towards the door.  
  
"Wait for me, Boxah," Lanny said, fixing his suspenders as he ran to catch up to us.  
  
"Suck up!" Arrow taunted from the sink room.  
  
"Suck up, suck up!" Patches, a newsie even younger than me, echoed him.  
  
"What's all dat about?" Boxer asked Lanny as the three of us walked outside.  
  
"Nothin'," Lanny said, shaking his head. "Just Arrow bein' a jackass."  
  
"Watch yer mouth in front of the kid."  
  
"'Jackass' ain't a cuss word, Boxah."  
  
"It is if Spot's around." He looked at me. "No cursin' til yer at least thirteen, okay, Spot?"  
  
"Yessir," I agreed.  
  
"Don't call me 'sir', eithah. I'm just plain ol' Boxah, remember dat."  
  
"Okay."  
  
We were now in front of a large building with ornate green gates.  
  
"Welcome to da World," Boxer said.  
  
Everything almost overwhelmed me as I looked up. Home of Joseph Pulitzer. A newsie heaven. The New York World. There seemed to be hundreds of them around, buying papes, comparing counts and headlines, joking amiably. Something inside told me that this is what I'd been waiting to do with my life, to sell papes with Boxer and Lanny and live in the Lodging House. Looking around, I saw a man leading two boys a couple years older than me around back.  
  
"Come on Oscar, come on Morris, you're going to visit your uncle today," he told them, and then disappeared behind a door.  
  
I felt someone tug my arm gently.  
  
"Let's get a move on, Spot," Boxer told me. We (Lanny, Boxer, and I) passed through the gates, up the ramp, and to the window. The other newsies must have known Boxer well, because they let him pass without a problem. "Top of the mornin' to ya, Weasel," he said, leaning against the ledge of the selling window.  
  
"I've told ya my name a thousand times, Boxah. Get it right for once, wouldja?" the grumpy man behind the counter griped.  
  
"A thousand and one times wouldn't hurt, yanno."  
  
"Cut the jokes, how many papes - "  
  
"Unca Weasel!" one of the two boys I'd seen out front came running towards him.  
  
"Seems the kids got it right, don't they?" Boxer smirked.  
  
Weasel looked like he was going to bust out of his skin.  
  
"How many papes?" he asked icily.  
  
"Well, I'se got a new sellin' partner here, it's his first day, so..." He held up two quarters for Weasel to see. "I think a hundred would be a good start."  
  
"New sellin' partner?" Weasel took the money and craned his eyes through the window to down at me. "Who's dis?"  
  
"A kid Mike a'n Raff found in the snowbanks back in January. 'is name's Spot Conlon."  
  
Nice to meetcha, Weasel," I said, following Boxer's usage of the name.  
  
"Yeah, yeah." Weasel slapped the papes onto the counter. "Get outta here, Boxah, and while yer out sellin', try setting the kid straight on my name."  
  
"Whatevah ya say, Weasel," Boxer said as he took the stack and handed me a few. He started leading me down the ramp when Lanny began speaking to Weasel.  
  
"So, how many for you?" Weasel asked him.  
  
"Fifty'd be great, if ya don't mind," Lanny replied.  
  
"Oscar, get the kid fifty. Morris'll help ya count."  
  
"Do I hafta, Uncle Weasel?" little Morris complained.  
  
"Just do it."  
  
"Hey, Spot," Boxer said, snapping his fingers as he tried to get me back to attention. "What are ya dallyin' for? We'se got papes ta sell."  
  
"Ain't we waitin' for Lanny?"  
  
"Lanny's got his own selling spot down by Central Park. We'se headin' to the harbor. C'mon, we'se gotta hurry up so we can catch the crowds."  
  
Boxer and I began to walk in that direction, but since I was younger and smaller, I couldn't keep up with his fast pace.  
  
"Boxah!" I called out ahead.  
  
"Yeah, Spot?"   
  
He stopped and turned around to look at me.  
  
"Can we take a quick rest?"  
  
His face softened.  
  
"Shoah."  
  
So the two of us sat down on a few spare boxes outside a fruit market. Boxer took a paper and began to read.  
  
"I'll give ya your first lesson right now," Boxer told me. "The key to sellin' papes is in the headlines. Can ya read?" I nodded. "What does that headline say?" I read it out loud to him. "Bad headline, right?" I nodded again. "Wrong. The first thing youse gotta learn is that it don't matter how bad the headline reads, because headlines don't sell papes. Newsies sell papes. That's the most important thing for any newsie to ever know, so don't evah forget it."  
  
"But if the headline's bad, how do you sell 'em?"  
  
"Improve the truth a bit." He opened the paper he was holding and pointed to a headline. "'Mayor's governess voted for opponent.' Real trite stuff. Now watch this." Boxer closed the pape and waved it in the air, shouting, "'Mayor's governess has affair with opponent!' Read the story for just a penny!"  
  
An old man walked up to us.   
  
"I'll take one, please," he said. Boxer handed him the pape, and I took the penny. "Thank you."  
  
"No, thank _you_," Boxer said charismatically. When the man left, he looked over at me.  
  
"That's how it's done. You wanna try?"  
  
"Yeah!"   
  
I was eager to prove myself. I took a pape from the small stack Boxer had handed me and yelled out as loud as I could, "'MAYOR'S GOVERNESS SMASHES IN OPPONENTS NOSE!!" I'm sure that sounded hilarious coming from a little nine-year-old like me, but people came up to me and bought papes. The headlines always sound more interesting when the younger crowd announces them. By the time the small crowd had subsided, Boxer and I had sold ten papes. Ten cents.  
  
"Youse was born fer dis, Spot," Boxer told me as he stuck the pennies in his pocket. "I'll give ya your share later."  
  
"Are we still gonna head to the harbor?" I asked him.  
  
'Course. An' we'll sell a few papes along the way," he told me. "C'mon, Spot."  
  
But we never did make it to the harbor that day. We spent our time trying our luck out the street corners, and we somehow ended up selling all of our papes before we came within blocks of our destination. It was mid-afternoon when we arrived back at the lodging house.  
  
"Welcome back, Boxer," Mr. Johansen said to us. "Paying your dues?"  
  
"Yessir," Boxer said as he put two pennies on the table. "Spot too."  
  
"Is that so?" Mr. Johansen asked, peering at me over his spectacles. I nodded. "Well, then, this is an important day!"   
  
He tapped his fountain pen on the ink-splotched page with the heading of 'Tenants'.  
  
"You'll have to sign in, then, if you're a paying member of the house."  
  
Mr. Johansen gave the pen to Boxer first, who signed his name in neat, large print: Alan Hunt, and directly following it, in parentheses, Boxer. Then Boxer held the pen out to me, but didn't put it into my hand before instructing:  
  
"Make your letters nice an' careful fer Mr. Johansen to read."  
  
Then he gave me the pen and I signed "Spot Conlon" in the neatest script I could. Boxer looked at me, impressed.  
  
"I knew you could read, kid, but write, too?" He ruffled my hair and flashed a glowing smile. "Smart kid. He's a real smart kid, Mr. Johansen. 'e'll be sellin' the most papes of anyone in Manhattan by the time 'e's fourteen, and maybe even earlier!"  
  
Mr. Johansen just smiled and nodded, and we continued into the lodging room.  
  
"How was your first day?" asked Mike as we entered.  
  
"I'm tellin' ya, boys, the kid's a natural!" Boxer announced to them. "The citizens of New Yawk just love 'im! We sold all our papes before ten, at least!"   
  
"But where ya been since then?" Watcher asked us. "We'se been waitin' for you two all aftahnoon."  
  
"Took a brief lunch at Tibby's to celebrate our newfound success."  
  
And we had. At the time, it was the best meal I'd ever eaten.  
  
"Best meal I'se ever had," I added, grinning. See? I told you it was good.  
  
"How nice a' ya to invite us all, Boxah," Arrow muttered sarcastically.  
  
"Go stick it up yer rear, Arrow," Raff said. "Youse wasn't the one out sellin' papes wit Spot."  
  
"Yeah, I'm sure you had a good time stealin' whatever food's in yer belly right now," Mike added.  
  
"Stop gangin' up on him, you two," Boxer told Mike and Raff. "Arrow can say whatevah 'e wants, same as you."  
  
"Then I'se'll ask - can Spot sell wit us tomorrow?"  
  
Boxer laughed.  
  
"'e's sellin' with me til the day I die," he told Mike. "Ain't no way I'm lettin' a kid this good go!" He had been raving like that all afternoon to anyone who'd listen, and it was making me feel more and more proud by the minute. "I'll make 'im the best newsie New Yawk's ever seen."  
  
I just smiled, feeling as proud and accomplished as any newsie ever could.  



	5. Farewell to a Local God

**AN/R:**_ This isn't going as well as I hoped.. I wish I could get right into my favorite parts, but those aren't coming for a while now. This is one of my favorite chapters, though.. the events pop up in later chapters, too, but I won't tell you what and leave you in suspense _O.O _Not that this is particularly suspenseful or anything _XD_ In the meantime, please R&R.. please? ::puppydog eyes:: On with the story!_  
  
And that's how it went for about three years. Every morning I'd rise at dawn, make myself proper, and go out to sell papes with Boxer. By then, we were actually making it to the harbor to sell. When we were done each day, we'd go out to eat, or maybe just stay around the harbor for a while. I liked the harbor. Something about it was so calm, but I knew that it was very powerful underneath. Most of the time, though, Boxer would take me to see the fights in the afternoon. Even at nine or ten, he didn't think I was too young to see a guy beat the living snot out of someone else; he rationalized it to the others by saying it would help me with my fighting skills. I got to meet some of the people who worked in the ring because they were Boxer's friends, and they all seemed to take to me. I was glad that I could be liked the same way Boxer was. The more time that went by, the more I idolized him. He was like God to me. No, he _was_ God. He had been God since day one.  
  
It was a normal September day when it happened. Everything had been normal at first - Boxer and I sold our papes, caught a quick lunch, and headed back to the Lodging House. It was a Sunday, so we skipped the fights. We hung around the lodging house for the rest of the day. I yakked with Arrow, Mike, and Duke, a ten year-old who had started selling papes that same year. Boxer was in the corner, near his bed, but none of us knew what he was doing. He seemed serious, even a little sullen, so we left him alone. Throughout the day the newsies came in and out of the house. Some of them looked at Boxer curiously, but a few didn't pay any attention. When the sun was finally setting, I discharged myself from conversation with Duke and headed for the door, thinking that maybe I'd go out by myself for a while. Catch dinner by myself or something. I knew my way around by then, of course. I was just sick of sitting around with Boxer acting so weird.  
  
"Stay here, Spot." Boxer's strangely unemotional voice reached me just as my hand hit the doorknob. I looked back at him. He wasn't even looking up. That's when I got the feeling something was wrong. So I did what I asked him to - I sat back down to resume my conversation with Duke. He, along with the rest of the newsies in the room, noticed the problem he seemed to be having as well. We all stared at his back in silence until someone had the courage to speak up.  
  
"'ey, Boxah, what's wit the silent bit?" Arrow asked in his natural disrespectful tone.  
  
"Shut up, Arrow."  
  
"I ain't shuttin' up til you tell us what's wrong."  
  
Boxer lifted his head and glanced back at us over his shoulder.  
  
"Well, dat's too bad, 'cause I ain't here just ta fulfill yer curiosities."  
  
The rest of us kinda wanna know, too," Marbles, a soft-spoken newsie around the age of fourteen, piped up cautiously.  
  
"Is everyone here?" asked Boxer.  
  
"I t'ink so."  
  
"Okay..." Boxer rose from his bunk to stand tall and face us. For the first time I noticed how tired his pale blue eyes looked. I peered past him to see a curiously large pack resting on the bed. "Is anyone here old enough to remembah Flashpots?" he asked, slinging the bag he had over his shoulder.  
  
A few scattered boys, including Arrow, Raff, and Mike, raised their hands or nodded their heads, but didn't say anything. I'd heard him mentioned by Arrow once or twice, but I never knew him personally, so I stood still.  
  
"For the rest of youse, Flashpots was the leadah here before me. He left when 'e got a job as a photographer for The Journal. I was sixteen at the time, and I'se nearly twenty-one now. Lotsa people have come, like Dukey here -" he paused as he gestured to him "- and lotsa people have gone, like Lanny. I know that I can't be a newsie all me life. I'se gotta make a life for myself as an adult, and to do that, I'se gotta give up my post and leave here."  
  
There was silence for a moment. My mouth was agape from astonishment as the words sunk in. Boxer...leaving!? Leaving!! It didn't make sense, not to me, and not to anyone else there as well. Nearly everyone there was stunned...the only one I could see with an uninterested look on his face was Arrow. When the shock subsided, frantic chatter emerged among the boys, not only among themselves but directed at Boxer as well.  
  
"L-leaving?"  
  
"You can't, Boxah!"  
  
'We need youse!"  
  
"It ain't gonna be right if you ain't here!"  
  
"Forevah?"  
  
"'EY, SHUT UP!" Boxer hollered over the discussions. "Why're you all so surprised? Guys have left the past few years...Bars, Lanny, a lot of 'em, youse all know dat. I gave it a lotta thought, and it's the best thing for all of us. And you guys is gonna have a great leadah to take ovah fer me."  
  
Arrow arched an eyebrow and grinned, as if he was expecting something.  
  
"So, Boxah," he asked, folding his arms over his chest. "Who's takin' the torch?"  
  
"Like I said, I gave dat a lot of thought...and I decided on someone who I know's gonna bring da boys to da top - Raff, take good care of 'em all."  
  
Raff looked like he had been knocked right over. He was so surprised, you could have guessed that a feather had done the job.  
  
"I...I'm takin' over!?"  
  
"Congrats, Raff," said Mike, patting him on the back.  
  
"Youse gonna be great!" agreed another, Rocky.  
  
"What the hell kinda crap is dis!?" Arrow suddenly yelled through the cloud of good words. "I'se been here longer dan 'e has!"  
  
"Dat don't mean shit, Arrow! I ain't evah seen you do anythin' unless it benefited yerself!" Boxer snapped. "You ain't fit to lead dis lodgin' house from what I know."  
  
"Den when you leave, I'll take it over," he said cockily.  
  
Boxer dropped his pack and stalked over to Arrow. He reached out a strong hand, grabbed him by the shirt, and slammed him against the wall angrily. We watched the whole scene in silence.  
  
"You ain't doin' nothin' of the sort!" he yelled in Arrow's face. "You ain't happy here, den go down and find a new lodgin' house ta stay at, away from Manhattan. I ain't lettin' ya cause any more trouble here." He released Arrow with a shove to the side and slung his pack over his shoulder again. "It was good to know ya, boys," he said to us, and then headed out the door.  
  
I stared at the door for a while, trying to understand just _why_ he'd leave, and why he'd abandon me, all so suddenly, as I ignored everyone else's hushed whispers and startled glances. I surprised everyone, though, when I sprinted as fast as I could out the entrance to the Lodging House and into the street.  
  
"Spot, c'mon back here!" I could hear Raff yelling. "Don't follow 'im!"  
  
But that's exactly what I was going to do. And even if Raff was the new leader, I wasn't going to let him tell me what to do just yet.  
  
The advantage to being young is that you're faster and have more energy. Being twelve, and following someone who was without a doubt casually walking in familiar places, I caught up to Boxer in about fifteen minutes, but when I found him, I was barely able to tap him on the shoulder without gasping for air. More energy, yes, but when you stop, you're more tired too.  
  
"Spot!" Boxer exclaimed as he turned around and saw me. "What're ya doin'?"  
  
"Why...you...leavin'?" I sputtered between breaths.  
  
"Did ya even listen to a word I said?"  
  
"Every single one of 'em!"  
  
"Den you know." He started to turn again. "Stay away this time, Spot. You won't be able to find me if you go lookin' again."  
  
"Why are ya bein' this way!?"  
  
"I said I was leavin', didn't I? And I am. I'm goin' where nobody can find me."  
  
"Where?" I asked.  
  
"Chicago."  
  
"Why Chicago!?" I demanded.  
  
He looked at me again. "Bein' a newsie an' bein' in New Yawk didn't do much fer me, Spot. The only reason I stuck around was ta earn money just to get by. But the other day this guy comes up to me, says he's from Chicago and woiks in da fights. 'e told me that I could be part of it, as long as I left today."  
  
"WHY!?" I questioned, near screaming now.  
  
"New Yawk don't do nothin' fer me anymore, like I said. Spot, if you don't lemme go, I'll miss me train." He started walking again.  
  
"Fine!" I yelled after him. "GO! Go be a goddam real boxah! Go leave all of us!" I closed my eyes and started going through every curse I'd ever heard anyone say. "You fuckin' jackass cock-sucker bullshittin' bastard an' do yer filthy, pigshit crappin' -" I stopped as I felt pain shoot through me, as if something hard had come into contact with my jaw. Opening my eyes, I saw that something had been Boxer's fist.  
  
"I told you, no swearin' til yer thirteen!" he barked as I cradled by jawbone.  
  
"I'll be thirteen in two months," I informed him.  
  
"Well, you ain't it today, so cut it. This is hard, Spot. Don't you dare think it ain't. But I'se gotta go and can't keep backtrackin' to set you straight. You got that?"  
  
I nodded meekly, my jaw hurting like nobody's business.   
  
"I'm glad I got to know ya, Spot," he continued, patting me on the head. "Keep up what I taught ya."  
  
"Thanks fer savin' my life," I muttered, my eyes averting his.  
  
I saw a grin break through his angry face.  
  
"No problem, kid. Take care of yourself."  
  
"You too," I said as he walked away.  
  
God was gone.  
  



	6. Josiah "Speck" Robertson

**AN/R:**_ This is the first chapter I wrote after I reopened the file last month.. unfortunately, it might be a little while after this before I write another chapter. I'm not quite sure if I want to bring Jack back just yet or not; if I do, chapters will come more quickly because I already have Jack-related ones from last summer stored away (including my favorite one, heehee). We'll see where my Muse takes me, though. It'll probably be a few more chapters. Thank you SO MUCH to everyone that's reveiwed, especially Carrots, who's reviewed just about every chapter.. you're great, thanks so much.   
  
Holding Over Water -- Chapter 6_  
  
The rest of 1894 isn't worth much mention. Arrow settled down and started listening to Raff, who, though he was no Boxer, was doing his best to keep everything together. I fell in line quickly too, of course, because it was Raff, to whom I owed my life just as much as I owed Boxer. I had my birthday, but that was never a big deal because I never celebrated it with the newsies. They didn't even know when it was. But I think they realized I was thirteen when I stared cursing like a sailor on a regular basis.  
  
1895 came in cold, just like the beginning any other New York year. Winter always made me remember the time when I was freezing, and the fact that this was my first winter without Boxer around didn't help either. My mother and Boxer. The fact that the two most important people ever put in my life were gone hurt. When Boxer left, I knew that he had taken something from me that I had been beginning to lose with my mother's death, and without that, it wasn't much use trying to go beyond existence. I became an empty shell come December. Every morning, I'd get up and sell my papes (on a street corner, since the harbor was frozen solid), but then I'd come back to the lodging house and crawl into bed for the rest of the day.  
  
On New Year's Day, I was selling the special January 1st, 1985 edition with Duke, who had asked to tag along with me that day. Since he was younger and cuter, I let him do the business. I just stood on the sidelines, in between the snowbanks, ready to hand him his next pape. He didn't mind, since I was sharing some essential pointers with him that he had never learned when he first started. Duke finished around mid-afternoon, and though he tried to insist, I wouldn't take the half of the profits he wanted me to. He'd sold nearly a hundred and fifty papes on his own that day, and I wouldn't even let him give me the money for my hundred papes that I'd given him to sell. The kid deserved every cent of that. He'd worked hard, especially when that winter wind whipped in his face.  
  
We were on our way home when it began to snow lightly. We weren't far from Tibby's, so we decided to take a stop there and get some hot chocolate. Though I wouldn't let Duke give me any money, I did let him trick me into letting him pay.  
  
"Youse doin' real good, Duke," I told him as we sat in a booth next to the front window. "Yer gonna be a great newsie. Already are, actually."  
  
"Thanks, Spot," he said sheepishly. "It's really nice of ya ta teach me."  
  
"Newsies help each udder," I told him, taking a sip of my hot cocoa. "I don't want anyone starvin', 'specially when they're good kids like you."  
  
Duke only smiled as we finished the contents of our mugs. For a moment, I was afraid that I was going to be like Boxer to him, and then end up leaving one day and breaking his heart as a result. But Duke was a good kid with a level head on his shoulders, and I had no outlandish dreams like working the fights in Chicago like Boxer did.  
  
"We should go," I told him as I gazed out the window. "The snow ain't gettin' any bettah."  
  
Duke nodded. We paid and left, making the walk back home to the Lodging House. On the way, I noticed something curled up in a snowbank and had sudden flashbacks to my youth. It was a boy, about the same age as I had been, but in what at least looked like warmer clothes. I tapped Duke on the shoulder to point him out and we approached the boy cautiously.  
  
"Hey," I said quietly, nudging his shoulder with my hand, "you okay, kid?"  
  
The kid turned over with a slight groan, a plaid scarf falling from his face to show red hair flecked with white from the snow - and a real bad black eye. All that at eight years old.  
  
"Jesus," I breathed. I felt his forehead, to be safe...but no fever. "C'mon, kid," I said, taking his freezing hands.  
  
"'e could be someone's kid," Duke warned me.  
  
"Looks like they're beatin' him, whoever they are."   
  
The boy said nothing as I hoisted him up to his feet and I began leading him in the direction of the lodging house, eventually just scooping him up into my arms when it looked like he couldn't walk much anymore. Duke followed silently, looking around as we walked, possibly for the kid's father. When we were almost close enough to step into its door, Duke tugged on my jacket nervously.  
  
"Spot," he mumbled, pointing behind him. "Lookit."  
  
There was an older man stalking towards us, looking raving mad. I stopped and let him approach us, the kid still in my arms. When he was close enough, he pointed at him.  
  
"That is my _son_," the man scowled. Ah, so here was the culprit.  
  
"You give 'im that black eye?" I asked.  
  
"That's not your business."  
  
"I think it is," I told him.  
  
"Give him to me so I can take him home," he demanded, ignoring me and my comments.  
  
"No," I said flatly. "I ain't givin' him to ya, especially since youse is beatin' him."  
  
"What I do with my son is none of your business. You're just a street-rat newsboy."  
  
"Spot..." said Duke nervously from behind me. "You should give 'im back."  
  
"I ain't doin' that, Dukey..." I set the kid down next to him. "I'll fight ya for him," I told the father. "An' I'll do more damage to you than youse done to yer son."  
  
"I bet you don't even know how to fight," the father smirked. Perhaps an angry man with ignorance is more dangerous to himself than anyone else, even more dangerous than an angry man with a passion to fight. If only he knew he was talking to a boy who had been taught by the most experienced fighter in Manhattan.  
  
"If you're willin' to go through wit it, I am."  
  
"Does a kid you don't even know the name of mean that much to you?"  
  
"What's his name?" I asked.  
  
"Josiah."  
  
"Yeah, Josiah means that much," I told him.  
  
"Then take him," the father said. "You'll see that he's just a good-for-nothing anyway."   
  
He spit in Josiah's direction and stormed off in the snow, his footprints marks in the snow that would be covered up and forgotten sooner than I would forget the child he had just left me. I went back over to Duke and the kid and scooped Josiah back up in my arms.  
  
"So, Josiah," I said to him. "Wanna be a newsie?"  
  
He said nothing, only nodded slowly.  
  
"First thing we've got to do is give you a nickname, then. Everyone's got one...I'm Spot, and he's Duke." I could see Josiah's freckles peeking through the snow that had landed on his cheeks. "Youse got some specks on yer face, ya know."  
  
He nodded again.  
  
"You got 'em all ovah?"  
  
His response was a nod.  
  
"We'se'll call ya Speck then, okay?"  
  
Yet another nod.  
  
"Hey, say somethin', wouldja?" I asked as we stepped into the door to the Lodging House.  
  
"Put me down," he mumbled.  
  
I laughed and set him down on his feet so he could go enter on his own.  
  
"Bettah," I said as I took the pen to the book and signed three names - mine, Duke's, and Speck's.   
  
"We've got someone new?" Mr. Johansen asked, looking down at Speck.  
  
"Josiah Robertson," Speck introduced.  
  
"His name's Speck," Duke told Mr. Johansen.  
  
"Speck Robertson. Sounds like a newsie to me," Mr. Johansen said with a smile. "Get in a fight?" he asked, peering at his black eye.  
  
"Something like that," I told Mr. Johansen. I saw Speck yawn. "I'm puttin' him ta bed, if that's no problem."  
  
"The Lodging House is always open, Spot, especially to newcomers. Taking him with you in the morning?"  
  
I paused to consider it, and then grinned.  
  
"Maybe. If he can get up at dawn."  
  
Mr. Johansen laughed.  
  
"We'll make sure of it," he said.  
  
For Speck, it was the beginning. 


	7. A Letter, A Secret

**AN:** _Sorry about the massive amount of cliffhangers, folks, but hopefully this new chapter makes up for it. I really appreciate the response to it, though _:D_ There's kind of a cliffhanger here, too (I love this chapter, did I mention that? Plot twist!), but I know where I'm going with it _^_^ _Actually, there's a 50/50 chance. In the meanwhile, though, enjoy, and review!_  
  
_Holding Over Water -- Chapter 7_  
  
From January second, 1895, on, Speck was officially my selling partner. Around any newsie but me and Duke, the kid was shy as hell at first, but as soon as we got him out on the streets to carry the banner that first day, he was one of the most comfortable kids I'd seen. He looked right at home on a street corner, which you can decide to be a good or bad thing. After that night he would tell me that he had lived on the streets for a while, running away from his father, who, after he found Speck, would give him a few "reminders" as to why he shouldn't leave home. I felt bad for the kid, if you want to know the truth, but at the same time he showed me just how tough he could be. I admit that I treated him special, but I think it helped him open up to the other boys. Watcher, now sixteen, and Patches, a boy of ten, took to him especially well.  
  
After that day, I stopped being depressed. Speck made me realize that there was something to live for without Boxer, and I had to live for Speck, to show him that this life was better than the one he'd had with his father.  
  
What can I say about 1895 other than that? There's the most important, pivotal event in my life, of course: late that spring, I met Jack Kelly, which I know I've talked about already. On that day…there's so much I can say about that day, and not just about Jack.  
  
After we finished our selling that day, Speck and I went back to the lodging house, where I got the biggest surprise of my life. Okay, I'm getting ahead of myself. We went back to the Lodging House, still high off our adventurous day, and the two of us were welcomed back by Watcher.  
  
"'eya, Spot an' Speck," he greeted.  
  
"Hiya," Speck said, beaming.  
  
"Heya Watchah," I said. "How's it rollin'?"  
  
"Not bad, Spot, not bad."  
  
"Good sellin' day?"  
  
"Same as usual. How about youse two?"  
  
"It was pretty good," I told him.  
  
"Tell 'im about the guy we met!" Speck, at my side, chirped up.  
  
"Guy?" asked Watcher. "Anudder newsie, Spot?"  
  
I shook my head. "This guy ran into me and spilled all me papes. But we got to talkin' an' he even helped me when Speck was being hassled by some thug."  
  
"And?"  
  
"An' he helped scare 'em off!!" interjected Speck, smiling. Watcher and I both laughed.  
  
"Yeah, that's right, Speck," I agreed. "Why doncha go sign the book fer me?" I asked him. "We forgot on our way in, and Mistah Johansen'll help ya if you need it."  
  
"Okay!" he said, and trotted out of the room.  
  
"Well, what about him?" Watcher asked me as Speck left. "Does 'e got a name, foist of all?"  
  
"Jack Kelly," I said, almost smiling at the sound of it.  
  
"What about this Jack Kelly guy?"  
  
"I think he'd be a good newsie," I admitted. "He reminds me a lot of Boxah."  
  
"An' Boxah was the best," Watcher said approvingly.  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"Den he's got potential."  
  
"If he'd stop bein' a thief."  
  
Watcher nodded. "I knows whatcha mean." After a brief pause, he continued, almost a little cautiously. "Hey…I got a lettah today."  
  
"Really?" I asked. It was rare that any of us got mail. Raff received letters from his older sister, who lived out in the country, occasionally, but I knew Watcher had no family -- or, at least, no family he was willing to mention. "From who?"  
  
"'Member Lanny?"  
  
"Lanny!" I exclaimed with enthusiasm, my face lighting up at the name. "No shittin', Watchah? Lanny sent ya a lettah?"  
  
"Yeah, we'se been exchangin' 'em for a while now."  
  
"Damn, it's been a long time since Lanny was around. How is 'e?"  
  
"He's real good. He's livin' in Chicago."  
  
"Chicago?" I asked. "Hey, ain't that where Boxah…" I trailed off. No way. There was no damn way. "Watchah, were Lanny and Boxah…?"  
  
Watcher bit his lip and then nodded his head. "I wasn't supposed ta tell anyone, though, you understand, right, Spot?"  
  
"Yeah…" I said slowly. "Yeah, I understand."  
  
So these were the kinds of secrets newsies kept. The kinds of secrets even God could keep. Lanny and Boxer. It was almost beyond comprehension. For a moment, I was disgusted by the thought, but then my hatred turned towards myself…I should have seen it in the way those two acted with each other, the way both of them looked at each other, especially when Lanny left for greener pastures. Boxer's face from that day was still imprinted in my mind. I'd thought he had felt a brotherly love for Lanny, but I guess I really had underestimated the bond they had. Lanny and Boxer. Who could have known? And now, it was possible I was going to fall into that same trap after a chance meeting with a boy named Jack Kelly.  
  
"I think I'se gonna take a walk," I told Watcher. All of this was making me feel a little shaky, and I needed to cool my head. "Can ya watch Speck fer me?"  
  
"Shoah," he said. As I headed for the door, he added, "Spot?"  
  
"Yeah?" I asked.   
  
"Lanny told me ta tell ya Boxah says hello."  
  
I didn't say anything in return; I merely nodded, my eyes clenched shut, and then I left, to walk without destination into the world of confusion that had been created for me...all because of one letter.  
  



End file.
